The sword and shield of Scottish land Was valiant Halbert Kerr. "A warlock loved the warrior well, Sir Michael Scott by name, And he sought for his sake a spell to make, Should the Southern foemen tame. Look thou,' he said, 'from Cessford head, And when glimmering white on Cheviot's height The spell is complete which shall bring to thy feet The haughty Saxon foe.' "For many a year wrought the wizard here, In Cheviot's bosom low, Till the spell was complete, and in July's heat But Cessford's Halbert never came "For years before in Bowden aisle The warrior's bones had lain, And after short while, by female guile, Sir Michael Scott was slain. "But me and my brethren in this cell His mighty charms retain,And he that can quell the powerful spell Shall o'er broad Scotland reign." He led him through an iron door And in wild amaze did the wanderer gaze Through the gloomy night flash'd ruddy light,- The cave rose high, like the vaulted sky, In every stall of that endless hall Stood a steed in barbing bright; At the foot of each steed, all arm'd save the head, Lay stretch'd a stalwart knight. In each mail'd hand was a naked brand; As they lay on the black bull's hide, Each visage stern did upwards turn, With eyeballs fix'd and wide. A launcegay strong, full twelve ells long, By every warrior hung; At each pommel there, for battle yare, A Jedwood axe was slung. The casque hung near each cavalier; The plumes waved mournfully At every tread which the wanderer made Through the hall of gramarye. The ruddy beam of the torches' glean That glared the warriors on, Reflected light from armour bright, In noontide splendour shone. And onward seen in lustre sheen, Still as the dead lay each horseman dread, And moved nor limb nor tongue; Each steed stood stiff as an earthfast cliff, Nor hoof nor bridle rung. No sounds through all the spacious hall Save where echoes aloof from the vaulted roof At length before his won lering eyes, Of antique shape, and giant size, "Now choose thee here," quoth his leader. "Thy venturous fortune try; Thy woe and weal, thy boot and bale, In yon brand and bugle lie." To the fatal brand he mounted his hand, The brand he forsook, and the horn he took But so wild a blast from the bugle brast, From Forth to Tees, from seas to seas, The awful bugle rung; On Carlisle wall, and Berwick withal. To arms the warders sprung. With clank and clang the cavern rang, "Woe, woe," they cried, " thou caitiff coward, That ever thou wert born! Why drew ye not the knightly sword The morning on the mountain shone, And on the bloody ground "The reader may be interested by comparing with this ballad the author's prose version of part of its legend, as given in one of the last works of his pen. He says, in the Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft, 1830:- Thomas of Ercildowne, during his retirement, has been supposed, from time to time, to be levying forces to take the field in some crisis of his country's fate. The story has often been told of a daring horse-jockey having sold a black horse to a man of vcnerable and antique appearance, who appointed the remarkable hillock upon Eildon hills, called the Lucken-hare, as the place where, at twelve o'clock at night, he should receive the price. He came, his money was paid in ancient coin, and he was invited by his customer to view his residence. The trader in horses followed his guide in the deepest astonishment through several long ranges of stalls, in each of which a horse stood motionless, while an armed warrior lay equally still at the charger's fect. All these men,' said the wizard in a whisper, will awaken at the battle of Sheriffmuir.' At the extremity of this extraordinary depot hung a sword and a horn, which the prophet pointed out to the horse-dealer as containing the means of dissolving the spell. The man in confusion took the horn and attempted to wind it. The horses instantly started in their stalls, stamped, and shook their bridles, the men arose and clashed their armour, and the mortal, terrified at the tumult he had excited, dropped the horn from his hand. A voice like that of a giant, louder even than the tumult around, pronounced these words: Woe to the coward that ever he was born, That did not draw the sword before he blew the horn. A whirlwind expelled the horse-dealer from the cavern, the entrance to which he could never again find. A moral might be perhaps extracted from the lege: d, namely, that it is better to be armed against danger before bidding it defiance." 2 This celebrated horn is still in the possession of the chief of the Harden family, Lord Polwarth. But the leal-fast heart her breast within It weel was worth them a'. Her father's pranked her sisters twa But Margaret maun seek Dundrennan'a wa'- On spear and casque by gallants gent But never at tilt or tournament Her sisters rode to Thirlstane bower, |